Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Music Box Theatre

Contorted in anguish, his body writhes precariously before an audience, both in the story and on the stage of the Music Box Theatre. His face streams with sweat and tears, his face quivers, and his hands tremble with the weight upon his shoulders. It is the weight of the world – the weight of being a teenager, which, even in the best of possible worlds, is the worst weight of them all. He stumbles to the ground, melting into a pool of angst and despondency, and just when you think you can’t bear the awkward silence and the agonizing quiet, he launches into ‘You Will Be Found’ – the Act One closer that is a high point of ‘Dear Evan Hansen’, last year’s Tony Award winner for Best Musical. And that’s just the emotional roller-coaster of the last ten minutes of the first act.

With its weighty subject matter and grim modern-day depiction of the desolation of an ever-encroaching online world, ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ seems an unlikely choice for Best Musical material, yet somehow the overriding emotional catharsis of the show, along with a powerful set of songs courtesy of Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, makes this a ride worth taking.

It begins in familiar territory for most of us: parent and child growing pains. We’ve all been on one or both ends of that formula, and as the mothers in ‘Anybody Have a Map?’ lament, there is no easy answer. From there, the musical takes off as title character Evan Hansen seeks to conquer his doubts and heal his mysteriously-broken arm, wondering at his inability to connect with others in ‘Waving Through a Window’. After a misguided letter and sudden tragedy lead Evan on a quest requiring deception to ease another family’s pain, the main catalyst sets the musical in motion. Rather than face the truth, Evan crafts a happier version of events that never really happened, but the beauty of ‘For Forever’ is that there is a kernel of truth in the wanting for such a perfect day to be real. That wanting is authentic. If he believes in it enough, if he makes it sound so good that everyone will want to believe in it too, then the lie might be forgiven. It might be given another life as something else, something that soothes and corrects a past that might not be as perfect.

Before things get bogged down in that philosophic contemplation, there is the hilarious trio of ‘Sincerely, Me’ and the comedic relief of Evan’s “family friend” Jared. Such transitions are absolutely vital in such a heavy show, but would be bright spots in any musical treading the boards right now.

As the title character for Wednesday and Saturday matinees, Michael Lee Brown gets the brunt of the emotional walloping, but his physical embodiment and vocal athletics are more than mettle for the task at hand. His Evan Hansen is all frail and flailing delicacy masked by self-deprecating humor, mirroring his mother’s initially over-the-top can-do attitude. When that mask is ripped off, it’s a remarkable thing to watch whether he will replace it with another.

Evan’s two would-be compatriots, Conor Murphy and Jared Kleinman, guide him in ways both hilarious and poignant. As the latter, Will Roland gets the majority of laughs, with impeccable comedic timing and sly delivery. Mike Faist brings typical teen angst and surprising tenderness to the troubled Conor.

The parents here are on equally complex footing. As the mothers, Rachel Bay Jones and Jennifer Laura Thompson are saddled with the weight of their teenage offspring, each dealing with fractured families in their own way. Ms. Jones gets the eleventh-hour tearjerker ‘So Big/So Small’ that finally breaks through to her son. As the lone father in the piece, Michael Park is all stoic, low-growl slumber until he opens up in ‘To Break in a Glove’. By the time Evan’s final salvo comes in ‘Words Fail’, the family that he has created is one to which we all suddenly belong. The need for that is primal and powerful. What happens when it’s taken away is devastating.

‘Dear Evan Hansen’ is about the families we create for ourselves, out of desperation or delusion or the simple need to survive. It’s about the lies we tell ourselves and the lies we tell each other – to be kind, to be consoling, to get through the day – and how draining and debilitating those lies can become. It’s about the existences we conjure and create, the facades of perfection we try so hard to keep flawless at any price. Mostly, though, it’s about the ways in which we matter, how each of us, despite our growing disenchantment and the ever-crushing way the world works, does in fact matter. And we are not alone. This musical reaches out to make a connection in a world where connecting no longer seems to make a difference. It’s a cry as gripping as a son’s desperate hug for his mother, a longing for a solution as insoluble as the longing for a lost father, and a quest for a moment of meaning as harrowing as the last hold on a tree branch before letting go.

Circle in the Square Theatre

Inventive, ingenious and invitingly-entertaining, ‘Once on This Island’ has transformed the Circle in the Square into a piece of theatrical paradise. Set on “an island in the French Antilles, then and now,” the current revival magically places its audience right on the island as well (and front row ticket-holders would do well to dress accordingly, i.e. for sand, which I neglected to mention to my Mom as she carefully strode across the beach in open-toed fancy shoes). It’s a delightful rendering of immersion theater that never feels gimmicky or trite, one that succeeds largely because the music and emotion behind the story are strong enough to merit a revival.

‘Once on This Island’ tells the tale of a little girl who loses her family in a storm but is taken in by a loving set of parents. When she grows up, she falls in love with a man she helped nurse back to health, but is prevented from being with him by their economic and social status. The interplay of nature versus society runs throughout the show, and the gorgeous melodies and songs of Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens (the team that would later create the equally-beautiful music of ‘Ragtime’) anchor the spectacular visuals.

Enchanting and epic, the breezes that blow off this magnificent musical are based on the most primal emotion of them all: love. It is felt in the details of the piece, from the present moment magic of the maelstrom to the distant evocation of the gods. It’s there in the sand beneath our feet and the water lapping at the edge of the stage. It’s there in the computer cords making up the headdress of one goddess, the plastic bags hanging like a couture necklace around another, and the Coca Cola spines of the deliverer of death. At once immediate and timeless, the musical sings the song of familial loyalty, endless love, sacrifice, loss, and redemption.

Hailey Kilgore is a revelation in her star-making turn as the grown Ti Moune. Her journey from wide-eyed innocent to cast-out lover helps turn this production into a seering work of art; her final scene at the gate is the heartbreaking stuff of theatrical legend. Isaac Powell gives a compelling performance as Daniel, object of and willing participant in Ti Moune’s affection. Daniel makes his own choices, as much as he is allowed, realizing his own trapped fate and powerless (or unwilling) to fight against it. It’s a difficult role, less showy and emotionally brittle as Kilgore’s, and more tricky because of it. That we are just as torn by his fate is testament to Powell’s complex portrayal (and I’m not just saying that because he complimented my shoes before the show began).

As the couple who takes in Ti Moune, Philip Boykin and Kenita R. Miller provide support, ambivalence, warnings and love as they let their little girl go. More than that, Ms. Miller offers a devastating portrayal of a mother-figure faced with the prospect of losing her child, something she shows in tears or the worrying of her hands as she sprinkles sand in superstitious protection. Her more powerful spell comes in the form of love, such as when she joins her daughter in a dance to show the society snobs a moment of unabashed revelry and joy.

The various gods supply both plotline catalysts and a sort of Greek chorus sounding board. Quentin Earl Darrington makes a commanding Agwe, overseeing the sea and the storms with whimsical and sometimes fierce abandon. Broadway veteran Lea Salonga brings her glorious soprano presence to the island as Erzulie, spinning choral gold with words of love. She is but one voice of many that raises this production to the realm of greatness.

The staging is genius, and it’s not just about the beach. I never thought anything more could be done with the sand on stage, but when it dissolves into a glorious carpet, and then into a floor of marble, it’s like a miracle happening right before your eyes. Such stagecraft is stunning, lending more wonder to the enchantment at hand, yet it remains rooted to the reality of the present, as it’s not a special effect but a clever manipulation of materials on hand. A car chase finds abstract assembly of its main vehicle in surprisingly effective form, while the gates of the palace are as formidable as they are fluid. Performers make double and sometimes triple duty use of the wreckage on-set; repeated viewings are probably necessary to fully appreciate all the little details as well as the majestic way they work together to create a perfect panoply.

The music remains the centerpiece here, and though there are some individual songs that stand out, it’s the piece as a whole that wields its true energy and power, even and especially in the aftermath of devastation and loss. The lilting and bittersweet ‘Some Girls’ is as heartrending as ‘We Dance’ is uplifting. Instruments are made from discarded plastic bottles and similar flotsam, resulting in a raw, organic sound – all the better to appreciate the voices.

By the final act of rebirth, storytelling has become a faith and religion unto itself. We pass on traditions, and songs, and tales of our past so that the future generations may learn, live and love better than those of us who came before. The last notes are hopeful reminders that the past, no matter how painful, can be reconstructed and repurposed – much like the throw-away objects that form the costumes and scenery here – and reborn in a new way. Without telling that story, there would be nowhere to go.